5
The morning air over the facility was cool and reverent, the kind of quiet that settled before something monumental.
The rugby pitch lay freshly cut and impossibly green, dew clinging to the grass.
The gates stood wide open, welcoming not just players, but families, elders, neighbors, and supporters who moved slowly toward the field, murmuring softly.
Claire noticed the fans were barefoot, as if to feel the soft grass beneath them, in honor of their heritage.
At the center of it all stood an older man, a Tohunga, whose presence felt like an everlasting fixture in the team.
His hair was long and silver, tied back with a strip of deep red cloth, and his face was etched with complicated tattoos - ta moko - that curved deliberately across his cheeks and down his chin, each line purposeful, telling a story older than the facility, older than the game.
Around his shoulders hung a finely woven korowai, feathers catching the light when he moved.
In his hands he held a carved tokotoko, the ceremonial walking stick, polished, smooth by generations of use, its spirals and notches dark with age and meaning.
While the coaches and staff were in their suits, with tribal sashes from various cultures, it was the team that stood out to Claire. The men stood in a wide arc behind the tohunga, dressed not as athletes, but as representatives of lineage and land. It was a line up of incredible diversity.
Noah stood shirtless, his hair freshly cut short, his chiseled chest and arms marked with traditional Māori patterns, inked skin stark against the morning air.
A long piupiu skirt rested at his hips, elongating his torso, its strands whispering softly when he shifted his weight.
He was still, eyes forward, as if he understood the gravity of standing where his ancestors stood.
Beside him, Toby was also dressed in Māori attire, a simpler cloak across his shoulders, bare feet grounded in the earth. His head was bowed slightly, hands relaxed at his sides, breathing slow and steady.
Miko looked formidable in Polynesian warrior dress. A broad sash fell across his fit torso, dark patterns painted across his arms and shoulders. There was something oceanic about him, like he carried the weight of islands and tides in his stance.
Liam and another player Kelsey, a hooker, stood together in Irish tartans, the deep greens and blues from their respective clans wrapped neatly around them.
The fabric looked heavy, ceremonial. The size difference between the two were almost comical, and the man’s large frame made the tartan feel protective, almost regal, while Liam’s expression was serious, eyes flicking briefly across the field.
And then there was Jack. Handsome Jack.
Jack stood out to Claire almost immediately, not because he didn’t belong, but because he represented his country of Australia.
He wore a tailored suit, charcoal gray, crisp and respectful.
No tie, but polished shoes, hands in his pockets.
Australian through and through, formal, understated, honoring tradition by not imitating it.
Claire stood in her Crusaders issued scrubs behind the team, next to Tania who was dressed a little nicer than normal, feeling almost like she’d wandered into something sacred by accident.
The tohunga lifted his tokotoko and struck it gently against the earth once.
Silence followed.
Then he began to chant.
The harakia rolled out low and resonant, words shaped by a deep rumble in his throat.
The sound seemed to sink into the ground itself, vibrating through the grass, through bone.
He called on the land, to the ancestors, to the guardians of place and people – asking for protection, strength, unity, and humility for the season to come.
As he spoke, Tania leaned close to Claire, whispering softly.
“He’s asking the land to accept them,” she translated. “To keep them safe from injury. To make them worthy of wearing the jersey and representing the people. He’s reminding them that this field isn’t just for winning, it’s for honor.”
Claire swallowed.
The tohunga moved slowly, deliberately, walking the perimeter of the pitch.
At each corner he paused, touching the grass with his tokotoko, murmuring blessings that felt private and ancient.
Visitors stepped forward when invited. An elderly woman pressed her palm to the turf, a father closing his eyes as he whispered a prayer, a child laid down a small carved token.
The team remained still throughout, not fidgeting, not whispering.
When the tohunga returned to the center, his voice rose one final time, sharp and commanding, before dropping into a quiet grounding finish. He pressed both hands to the earth, then stood.
The silence lingered.
Then he nodded to the coaches once.
It was done.
Claire realized she hadn’t breathed properly the entire time. She looked at the team – at Noah’s bare, inked skin, at Jack’s composed stillness, at the tartans, the warrior paint, the cloaks, and was mesmerized by it all.